


It Started With A Drowning

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Use, Druggie!Sherlock, Gen, How They Met, Paternal Lestrade, Paternal!Lestrade, Pre-Canon, Sunshine - Freeform, paternal, precanon, young!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9576527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: ”Your mate’s been nicked.”Frowning,he reached over to the dressing table and fumbled to find the switch for the reading lamp. When he finally found it the room was flooded with a yellow glow that made Greg’s eyes hurt. “My mate?” He rubbed the fingers of his free hand into the tear ducts on each eye, brushing the sticky remnants of at least a couple of hours rest out of his line of vision.”Sherlock Holmes - that posh lad from a couple of months back, the one who knew you were divorcing Tina.”





	

Morning broke earlier than Greg Lestrade had been prepared for, leading him to greet it less enthusiastically than he had planned to when he had graced his pillow with his head less than three hours before. The shrill sound of his phone ringing and vibrating against the watch and pocket change he had left on the dressing table at his bedside last night made him regret the entire decision to have emptied his pockets at all. He threw his arm out from beneath the sheets and slapped it down blindly onto the ringing device and then dragged it back in towards him. He answered the call with eyes that squinted into the glow of the screen and held the phone to his ear. “This had better be good, Donovan,” he croaked into the speaker. 

_”It is.”_

Greg turned onto his back, feeling a chill as the sheets moved with him, and tried to make out shapes and shadows in the darkness that four am cast around his bedroom. “Well, what is it?” He detested the fact that he was becoming increasingly lucid and the promise of sleep was slipping further away into the seconds that ticked by. 

_”Your mate’s been nicked.”_

Frowning,he reached over to the dressing table and fumbled to find the switch for the reading lamp. When he finally found it the room was flooded with a yellow glow that made Greg’s eyes hurt. “My mate?” He rubbed the fingers of his free hand into the tear ducts on each eye, brushing the sticky remnants of at least a couple of hours rest out of his line of vision. 

_”Sherlock Holmes - that posh lad from a couple of months back, the one who knew you were divorcing Tina.”_

Greg tried to make his tired brain remember the name. It took a few moments of clumsy thinking before the his brain finally selected and thrust forward a mental image of the man. He recalled the dark hair and piercing eyes, the slight body and prominent cheekbones and the way he had smiled when he had asked him how he honestly felt about the fact that his cheating wife was the one who’d filed for divorce, and had taken the kids with her when she left. “So?” Greg questioned her, “What does that have to do with me?” 

_”The beat bobbies called up, apparently he’s asking for you in a very loud voice.”_

Greg was sure that he could hear Donovan’s amusement in her voice. “It’s, what, ten past four in the morning? Does the desk Sargent sincerely believe I’m getting out of bed for a smack-head?” He shook his head at the ridiculousness of the entire phone call. “I’m hanging up now, Sally, OK?” 

_”You’re not coming then?”_

He silently cursed his decision to become a police officer in the first place as he felt guilt immediately flutter at his heart when Sally asked for confirmation of his refusal to come to the aid of somebody who had asked for him by name. “Twenty minutes,” he told her. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll be in.” He was awake anyway, he told himself, it would be selfish if he just hung up and turned over. He pulled the phone from his ear and pushed the pad of his thumb against the red ‘end call’ button. He tossed the phone down onto the bed beside him and dragged himself up with clicking protestation from his knees and sigh from his chest. 

Thirty minutes later, Greg pulled his car into his usual parking spot and dragged the handbrake up without pushing the button in, eliciting a disgruntled scraping sound from his vehicle. He patted his hand apologetically on the steering wheel, “Sorry,” he mumbled. He pulled the keys from the ignition and opened the door, inviting the cold air of far-too-early-in-the-morning into his car and under the collar of his coat to send a shiver down his back as he threw his legs out and rose from the seat. He slammed the door closed and clicked the central locking button his key ring. He slipped his keys into his right pocket and let both hands sink into the false protection of the fabric pockets as he braced his shoulders and marched through the mid-November wind toward the ever loved location for all drunks, druggies and public urinators of London; the drunk-tank. He was grateful to find the lobby warmed by the ceiling blowers and radiators and raised a speculative eyebrow to the blonde woman that stood behind the booking desk, logging the details of a particularly intoxicated man being held up by two uniformed officers. 

“Greg,” the woman smiled at him. It had been a while since this particular DI had been around processing while she’d been on a night shift. “You’re here for the posh one, aren’t you?” 

Greg withdrew his hands from his pockets and rubbed his cold hands together, begging for the warmth of the building to improve the circulation to his numb fingertips. “Apparently he requested me by name,” he replied with a look of disdain. “Which cell is he in, Ange?” 

“Six,” she said, inclining her head to the right, “Psych end.” 

“What was he pulled in for?” Greg asked. He unbuttoned his coat, letting it fall loose around his body. He’d lost weight in the last few months; Tina’s lack of presence had meant a lack of groceries which had ultimately led to a lack of valuable intake beyond coffee, cigarettes, and the occasional takeaway pizza. 

Ange quirked her light pink-painted lips, “Public intoxication, possession of narcotics, and verbally abusing a police officer.” She smiled. “He’s off his head, Greg,” she laughed and looked for all intents and purposes like she believed the man to be mentally ill. “Spouting about his brother _practically being the British Government_.” 

Greg cringed, his tired face unsure which expression would suit it best as it flicked between mild amusement at the play-by-play and confusion as to what he was about to be walking into. “Who brought him in?” 

“PCs Hanslow and Wilkes,” She recalled. “Tom Jackson did the booking, I was with a prostitute.” 

Greg laughed, “Were you now?” 

Ange made a face and shook her head, “Tom’s down that way, he’ll give you access to the cell,” She gestured and Greg nodded a thank you and walked toward the wing where the particularly difficult nightcrawlers were held. 

He stepped through the door and realised it was hard to sneak up on anyone along this hallway as his shoes squeaked and clipped noisily on the painted concrete floor. “Constable Jackson?” Greg called out, looking around for the man in question. “It’s DI Lestrade.” He walked further along the corridor, relieved in some small way to find most of the cells along his walk empty, and peered along a branching corridor to where a small search room and single toilet was located. “Tom? It’s Greg Lestrade,” he called inside speculatively, and was comforted to hear a reply. 

“Excellent, I’ll be right out.” the man called back, and Greg stepped back from the doorway to await his appearance. After a moment the PC appeared, escorting a man in with him by a light grip on his bicep back from the toilet. He stepped past Greg and ensured the man was back inside his cell, directly opposite the small room, before he turned and held out his hand to Greg. 

Greg accepted the proffered hand, shaking it strongly. “I believe my presence was requested by a smack-head?” He smiled nervously, releasing the younger man’s hand. 

Tom nodded his head and linked his arms behind his narrow back, “Yeah,” He raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock Holmes. Do you know him?” 

Greg shook his head, “Not as well as he apparently knows me,” he elaborated. “I take it he’s high as a kite?” 

“Oh yeah,” Tom’s green eyes opened wide and he shook his head, “Steamin’.” Greg shook his head in personal disgust; he had never really been able to make sense of anyone flooding their veins with that filth. “But he insisted he wanted to talk to you, mentioned something about some gig that your homicide guys have going on at the moment?He said that I needed to get you to talk to him tonight while his brain was sharp enough to tell you everything he had to tell you.” 

Greg’s eyebrows simultaneously crinkled downwards and rose up, giving his forehead multiple types of wrinkles and making him look more confused than anything. “About to confess to the murder of a six year old, is he?” 

Tom shrugged his left shoulder up, “For the state of his mental health, I hope not, or whatever prison ends up with him is going to have their hands full.” Greg offered a pity smile that lacked any real amusement at the comment when the PC smiled at him. The young man tipped his head to his right, “He’s in six; I’ll bring you down there.” 

“Yeah, do, thanks.” Greg nodded and followed the shorter man as he wandered down the corridor to the cell toward the end of the block. 

Tom wrapped his hands on the heavy door, the exterior of which was painted a bright orange. He reached for the bolt across the viewing window and dragged it over, allowing the hatch to fall down with a loud bang that echoed up the length of the largely concrete hallway. “Holmes,” he called, peering into the gap that was barely larger than most homes letterboxes. “DI Lestrade is here to see you.” 

Greg watched the man as he spoke smiled his thanks when the Constable stepped back and allowed him to approach the door. Greg stepped up, and crouched a touch to stare through the hatch. Peeking inside, he could see the frame of a thin man, all limbs and pale skin and short curly hair, sitting on the bed-slab with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs, fingers linking together around his shins. “Sherlock?” Greg spoke carefully, “It’s Greg Lestrade - I received a phone call stating that you’d asked to see me. PC Jackson here tells me you might have some information for me on the murder of Luke Brindle?” He waited, poised for words or a yell or a movement, but nothing came. “Sherlock, are you alright?” 

“It was his father…” a prostrate voice stated from inside of the cell. 

Greg frowned, “I’m sorry, what?” 

The figure moved and Greg could see his face as he pushed his long legs down and sat on the edge of the bed. After a moment, the limber body moved like fluid across the cell and approached the door, stopping far enough back that he could see out without having to bed at the hatch to see the DI’s face. “Luke Brindle, the little boy who was drowned, it was his _father_.” 

Greg drew his head back slightly, surprised at the difference in Sherlock’s appearance from the man he had recalled from a few short months ago. He was more drawn, impossibly paler, and quite possibly even more gaunt and waif-like. “Oh,” he narrowed his eyes. “How’d you come to that?” 

Sherlock’s cheekbones sharpened more as he smile, his lips pulling up on the right side more than the left, “Because I observed his reaction in the press conference.” He said with a very slight dragging lisp and the pronounced accent of a public school educated individual. “No tears but plenty of acting as though he was crying, and his account of the events that led to Luke’s death differed on no less than three occasions. If there is any amount of chlorine in that man’s garage, then you should be arresting him for the murder of his son. I do believe that daddy dearest wasn’t actually the provider of the _little swimmer_ that made little Luke.” 

Greg straightened up and frowned, shaking his head at the Constable. “There were empty containers for the chlorination kits for a home pool found at their property.” He said quietly, his eyes flicking over Tom’s face. He bent again and peered inside at Sherlock, “How could you possibly know that?” 

“I didn’t _know_ , I observed.” Sherlock clarified with a bored exasperation that told Greg he’d repeated those words many, many times in the past. “So,” Sherlock stepped a tad closer to the door, “Now that I’ve given you the answers you need to close your current caseload, how about you pop the locks and let me out?” 

Greg smirked, “No such luck I’m afraid, Sunshine,” he shook his head. “Drunk-tank rules - smack-heads stay overnight.” Sherlock made a face that looked so close to a petulant pout that Greg had to hold back a physical laugh. “I’ll investigate what you’ve given me, and if it turns out to be of worth you’ll be compensated.” 

“How?” Sherlock asked quickly. 

Greg thought a moment, considering he would have to chose his words carefully with the PC present. “Well, maybe I’ll start with looking for a rehab programme that’ll see you escape prison time.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes languidly, “Boring.” 

“Sit tight for the night,” Greg said, and tapped his right hand against the door. “...and thank you.” He let his hand fall down. “Is there anyone I can contact for you?” 

Sherlock sighed loudly and Greg watched him push a single bothersome curl of hair out of his eyes with the long fingers of his right hand. “My brother - Mycroft Holmes; his number is in my phone which that scrawny little man out there locked up with my watch and my magnifying glass.” 

Greg nodded, “OK, I’ll do that for you.” He straightened up and watched PC Jackson flip the hatch door back up and slide the bolt across. “You can get me his phone, can’t you?” he asked as the PC turned to him once the door was secured again. 

“You’re actually going to do it?” Tom laughed but sobered his expression when he was met with Greg’s earnest nod. “Uh, yeah - his belongings are in the hold at the front, I’ll bring you ‘round.” He nodded his head to the top end of the corridor and began to walk, leading Greg back toward the lobby. 

“Thanks again, Sherlock,” Greg called over his shoulder as he walked away. 

 

Three days later, Greg stood before a reporter with his usual brooding expression and nodded at the questions he was asked. Knowing it was being broadcast on BBC news, he kept his answers clipped to prevent editings being successful. “...Mr Brindle was charged with the murder of Luke in the early hours of yesterday morning. He has offered no-contest and he will face trial in the weeks to come. Thankfully, as a large and far-reaching team, Scotland Yard has some really reliable officers and official consultants who ensure we always get the best possible result. And for justice for Luke Brindle, a murder charge against his father is just that.”


End file.
